NO LOVE LOST

-a Harry Potter fan-fiction-

VOLDEMORT/HARRY

'Je ne te quitterai point que je ne t'aie vu pendu.' Dumbledore recognized the letter for what it was: his death sentence. It was written in a familiar, elegant scrawl. Harry James Potter's writing was very distinct, after all.

Another one of those shower-scene-ideas. Damn, they keep cranking out! Please excuse my partial reference to Neko-chan –Silvered Tongue-'s fic Paradise Lost- I couldn't resist! And anyways, this fic is sort of influenced by her works. So... enjoy. This can be seen as a prequel, or companion fic of sorts to FOR THE GREATER GOOD, another HPTR fic of mine. If there's no pagebreaks, blame my computer! It's stuffing up, and I can't even update my profile!

21st APRIL 2011

{something lost/never found}

Dumbledore

And he watched those brilliant Lily-spring-green-verdant-jewel eyes gradually darken, poison, become jaded with an ages old wisdom, sorrow, loss and world-weariness. It gave him the appearance of someone who had suffered far more than any other.

It gave him the look of a martyr.

The boy was breaking on the inside, scrambling for some sort of leverage, stability and coherence as he stumbled along the path Dumbledore had paved, slowly –but surely- darkening with knowledge, apathy and a strange, bitter loathing that could not be masked no matter how hard the boy tried as he gazed up at the man who had brought him up like a pig for slaughter, fattening him up with gentle words and cruel, tender lies.

And Dumbledore could not bring himself to regret the child for his choices when he saw the parchment laying on his desk, Gryffindor's sword missing and the residue of familiar, tainted magic.

And he knew, Albus Percival Wulfric Brain Dumbledore knew, that at that moment, everything had changed.

His beliefs and hopes for the future of the Wizarding World –for the greater good- were crushed, leaving an apprehensive, burdening acceptance. He would welcome Death in the end, when the time came; he would gladly part with the living and link arms with Him.

His only regret, ah, so many regrets...

'Je ne te quitterai point que je ne t'aie vu pendu.' *

The words on the parchment were a simple affair, but one that awakened a deep sense of despair in the old man's heart.

Those were the last words Tom had said to him before he left on that snowy winter's eve.

Before Tom had fallen and Voldemort emerged.

They stared him in the face now, bold and unassuming in emerald-green ink, so blatant, and Dumbledore could not ignore them, however much he wished to.

The symbol beneath the words was different, however, capturing his attention in its haunting message; a ghastly green and snake and skull.

~Morsmordre~

The snake moving gracefully out of the skull, hissing in taunting laughter and a lurid glow that captured all the essence of sin.

Dumbledore recognized the letter for what it was: his death sentence. It was written in a familiar, elegant scrawl. It was recognizable, for the letter was hand-written by feathered quill and in emerald ink.

Harry James Potter's writing was very distinct, after all.

Draco

Draco watched him, as often as Harry James Potter watched Draco himself.

At first, he was hesitant and wary in his spying; it was only natural curiosity that he follow his so-called worst enemy down the seventh floor corridor after heading there himself, and it was pure foolishness or maybe rashness that had caused Potter to not be wearing his Invisibility Cloak.

It was a well known fact in Slytherin, for they kept track of the 'Golden Boy's movements and explorations in the castle, that Potter had an Invisibility Cloak.

Why he chose to not wear it now was beyond Draco.

And so Potter's night-time explorations were very well documented by the blonde Slytherin.

Draco also knew a fact that not many other Slytherins knew, aside from Blaise and Theo: that Potter had a map, the sort that showed the position of every current occupant of Hogwarts. That had necessitated Draco to cast a cloaking and signature masking spell on his person each time he went out to spy on Potter.

He was only seen when he wanted to be seen.

And currently he was not wishing to be seen, but Potter caught him anyways.

"What are you doing?" He breathed, startling Draco from his thoughts and contemplations.

Potter's hand darted out to grab his shirt collar, the tip of his wand drifting perilously close to his jugular vein.

It seemed like Draco's game of espionage was over; he'd been caught red-handed in the act.

Draco reared up to his full height and smirked, oozing a confidence that felt fake to him.

He was caught, so he better act like that was his intention all along.

"What do you think I'm doing, Potter?" He sneered, but it was lacking his usual vitriol.

Potter, he realized, noticed this too.

"Dear Draco," Potter enunciated slowly with a sharp, underlying tone of viciousness that took Draco aback "it wouldn't go to poke your straight, pureblood nose into other's businesses. Especially in a position where it may be broken."

The vehemence in which this was said and the dangerous light in Potter's eyes warned him, this would be Draco's first and last chance. He shifted nervously, all too aware of the sharp point of the wand on his vulnerable, exposed throat.

The movement caused Potter's grip on his wand to waver, and while it did so, Potter's skin made contact with Draco's.

He inhaled sharply.

It seemed like a moment frozen in time, kept that way for eternity.

No, no, no!

It couldn't be! There was no possibility! How could Gryffindor's Golden Boy-?

Potter yanked his hand away from Draco's throat, breaking contact as if burned, and regained grip on his wand. He glared fiercely at the other boy, daring him to speak, wand pointed dangerously towards Draco's family jewels.

"You will speak of nothing that has occurred here today." His voice held as much menace as it had when he had spoken previously, and Draco knew that even if the threat was left unsaid, it lingered, like the stagnant and tense air between them.

Draco couldn't deny it now: the aura, the dimming light in the boy's eyes that spoke of poison and hellfire and innocence lost, the changing words of his Lord and the way that Potter had sometimes, on occasion, glanced towards the Slytherin table all added up.

Harry James Potter had gone Dark.

And there was no way that his Precious Headmaster would ever know how far his pupil had truly gone, for Draco knew that Harry would make good on his threat, his aforementioned pureblooded-ness be damned.

And Draco didn't know whether to laugh or to cry.

Once upon a time, long ago, he may have rejoiced, but now he knew that it was all changing; Potter, the Dark Lord, his Godfather, his family. He didn't know what to expect. So much change was difficult to comprehend or to keep up with.

It felt like life was leaving him behind.

If the scion of Light had gone Dark, what was to happen next?

The war was as good as won, seeing as the general public made it known that they relied on Potter, the Chosen One, the Boy-Who-Lived, to 'rally the troops', so to say.

They relied on the boy to single-handedly win the war.

And if that much a burden were placed on Draco's shoulders, he knew that he would bail too, much like Potter had done.

This would change everything; it would alter reality beyond depth if anyone from the Light were to find out.

And when Draco nodded his acquiescence to Potter's words, he knew that things would change for him too.

The mark on his left forearm was a testament to that; burning with joyous rapture, magic sizzling and hissing at Potter's proximity.

And then he noticed that Potter was analysing him, emerald gaze smoldering, picking him apart, defining his motives and then putting him back together; much like how the Dark Lord observed his victims before a particularly vicious round of Crucios.

Draco'd had firsthand experience in that department; the summer before, when the Dark Lord had walked the hallowed halls of Malfoy Manor, seemingly pleased and smug for reasons that evaded the Death Eaters and made the Malfoys ill at ease.

It unsettled now him, his nerves on edge, how much the Potter resembled the Dark Lord, not in appearance but in mannerisms that he may have unknowingly picked up.

Just who are you, Harry Potter?

-X-

Later, when the War had been won and questions pertaining to Harry Potter left unanswered, Draco was not in the least surprised, unlike his fellow Death Eaters whose jaws had certainly made contact with the floor, when Harry James Potter had been announced as the Royal Consort to the Dark King.

The Dark King, the former Dark Lord Voldemort, had no reservations in strictly reminding them that if his Consort were to be harmed or disturbed in any way then it would be reflected on the Dark King's being, and the perpetrator would be soundly punished in any way the Dark King deemed fit.

Death would have been preferable for the first fool who heeded not the Dark King's darkly spoken vow of vengeance and retribution.

And later, much later, after the Death Eaters had gotten over the novelty of it, they began to think seriously and surmised that Potter had been forced into his role by the Dark King, in an effort to save his pathetic Gryffindor friends.

That rumor, in particular, was set apart from the myriad of others - (and the sheer ridiculousness of the others!)- by the grain of truth that it held.

Yes, Harry had protected his friends, (and no, not all of them were Gryffindors), but he wasn't forced into becoming Voldemort's Consort.

In fact, Harry had been the one to suggest it in the first place.

He came downstairs one morning with an idea of how Voldemort could introduce Harry to the Death Eaters and relatively risk-free way, and the man had simply raised an eyebrow then returned to his morning coffee (Dark Lords are humans too!) and an edition of the Daily Prophet, seemingly absorbed in the headline article 'VOLDEMORT: SAVIOR OR SLAYER?'

Let it not be said that Harry James Potter didn't enjoy his duties as the Royal Consort, among other things.

{something lost/never found}

* Je ne te quitterai point que je ne t'aie vu pendu. | "I will not leave you until I have seen you hanged." – Jean Baptiste Poquelin Moliere; Le Medecin Malgre Lui (III, 9). Taken from Chapter Fifteen of Paradise Lost by Neko-chan –Silvered Tongue-Don't say that I didn't make a reference to it in flame-y reviews! Hoped you liked it!